


Debriefing

by MittenCrab



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blood, Chair Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Power Bottom Hanzo, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 16:03:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7539037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MittenCrab/pseuds/MittenCrab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You did not debrief,” Hanzo says finally. It’s more a statement than a question.</p><p>[McCree’s mission goes badly when he crosses paths with Reaper - the man who was once everything to him. Wounded and frustrated, he meets Hanzo at one of their safe houses, where he discovers that debriefing can be a lot more fun than he’d previously imagined. (PWP)]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Debriefing

**Author's Note:**

> Super thank you to everyone who encouraged me in this, and especially to [Carrionflower](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Carrionflower) for being such an amazingly wonderful beta (seriously the absolute best, you're a star!) and smoothing this out so nicely! Any and all mistakes that remain are mine alone.

This is how it ends:

 

“You never were a good student,” a man who was once Gabriel Reyes says to him.  

 

The expression on his face is entirely hidden behind that goddamn mask, but McCree can imagine the sneer well enough. It’s a bitter cocktail of disgust and disappointment, served ice cold on the rocks with a dash of hubris. He’s seen it before. Another place. Another time.

 

Now, in the filthy shell of an abandoned outpost, he stares up at the cold steel barrel of a gun and chokes back the burn of nausea in his throat. The air is thick with the scent of gunpowder, but the black mist seeping from the limbs of his attacker stinks of rotting fishbelly, sulphur, iron. In a word, it smells like  _ death _ . As he coughs, his mouth floods with the dirty taste of blood, and suddenly, he feels 22 years old again.

 

He is on the floor, on his back like an animal awaiting its own slaughter, nothing but a worthless carcass under the weight of the other man’s boot on his chest. This is all so familiar. He’s bloodied and desperate and snarling, just like he was back then - except he’s older now, and the blood is all his own, and this time there won’t be a second chance. There won’t be a hand to pull him up.

 

Jesse McCree isn’t the kind of man accustomed to asking for help, but he could damn well use a hand right now. It was supposed to be a simple mission. Just escorting some goods. Then the black mist started pouring into the side of his vision and everything was gritted teeth and gunfire.    
  
The sharp smack of the concrete floor as his skull whipped back against it earlier has set his ears ringing, disorientating him. His right arm is smarting with white heat from the searing graze of a bullet that he rolled just too slowly to avoid, and a sticky stream of blood burns as it runs into his eye from a deep gash on his forehead. Peacekeeper, his darling Peacekeeper, lies just out of reach, where she flew from his grip. All the while, the muzzle of a shotgun yawns down at him. Morrison’s phrase for this kind of a situation is ‘tactical emergency’. McCree prefers the term ‘fucked to hell’.

 

“Any last words?” the man asks, patronising in his languidity, as his boot presses down harder onto McCree’s chest. The pressure of it makes it feel like his ribs are about to splinter. 

 

He just coughs, tries to pull air into constricted lungs. There are  _ so many _ words that he wants to say, but all they stick in his throat like moths and smoke. Above all, he wants to grab hold of this man who was once his only family, this man who had picked him up as a broken, desperate pup lying in the entrails of his brothers. He wants to shake him, to shout  _ you were everything _ . 

 

He doesn’t.

 

He’s heard people say that when you’re looking into the face of death, your life flashes before your eyes. Jesse McCree has stared at death enough times to know that it’s a steaming pile of bullshit. Death is not a transformatory experience. The barrel of a gun is not a seer’s crystal ball. It’s an ending, just like any other. It’s human sweat, a full stop, the edge of a cliff - nothing more. And so, he doesn’t hold a solemn reflection upon his regrets (a handful) or his failings (many). He doesn’t soliloquise on a life poorly lived and what might have been. He doesn’t use his final moments to apologise to his Ma, or to Morrison, or (though this one stings him) to Hanzo.   
  
Instead he grits his teeth into a feral smile and splutters, with what he assumes will be his final breath, “Fuck you, Reyes.” He spits on the boot crushing him into the floor.   
  
The other man makes a sound of disgust. For one glorious moment, the weight on his chest is lifted - only to slam into his side with a crack that sends the air shooting from his lungs. McCree’s body jerks instinctively as sharp pain snaps through his ribcage, blooming white and red behind his eyes, and acrid bile rushes into his mouth. He screws his eyes closed and whines, trying to remember how to breathe.

  
“ _ Ingrate, _ ” the man who was once his only family says, as though the word is caustic. “I taught you everything you know.”

 

He thinks of lessons and repentance and pining and family. And then he thinks of Hanzo.

 

“Not everythin’,” he manages, dizzied. He laughs.   
  
The gunshot is so loud in his ears that it feels like the whole world has shattered.

 

And then he realises all at once, that he’s still alive, that he’s breathing. His eyes snap open just in time to see that this is just as much a surprise to his attacker as it is to himself. The gun pointing down at him isn’t the one that fired.    
  
“Get down!” he hears from somewhere to his right, and there’s barely time to think before there’s the high pitched whistle of rockets above him and he pulls himself into a ball. And then, the screaming, cavernous roar of concrete and metal as it explodes. Rubble showers into the air, throwing up a storm of hot shrapnel, and he chokes on the taste of gunpowder. His vision fills with dust.    
  
“Move, kid! Move, move,  _ move _ !” he hears Morrison’s voice yelling. And then the adrenaline is flooding his veins like electricity and he’s reaching to the back of his belt through sheer muscle memory before the man above him recovers from his confusion. Suddenly the flashbang is in his hand. He tosses it at the feet of the person who once gave him everything, screws his eyes closed. The scream of the explosion feels like his head has been set on fire.

 

The grenade only stuns for a few seconds, but it’s enough. He rolls, grabs for Peacekeeper, feels the familiarity of her in his hand like a lover. His ears echo with nauseating white noise, but he’s used to this. He’s not going to die today.

* * *

  
  


“Reckless,” Hanzo mutters under his breath, eyebrows drawn, stabbing aggressively at the gash on McCree’s arm with a wad of antiseptic-laden cloth.    
  
“Oh come on, it ain’t that bad.” He brings a cigar to his lips, takes a long drag, lets the taste of it take him over. “Feels fine. Just a scratch.” It actually feels like someone’s scrubbed his arm with sandpaper and then set it on fire, but he’s too proud to admit it. There is blood in his nose and ash in his hair and the peaty, acrid taste of frustration sitting heavy on his tongue like sour bourbon. Hanzo pointedly wrinkles his nose.   
  
“You were careless. If Morrison had not-”   
  
“Had worse, darlin’. Had worse.” He grins and waves his other hand, the prosthetic hand, to illustrate the point. He doesn’t mention the fact that seeing Reyes has made the phantom pains he thought he’d left behind years ago suddenly blaze up his arm like a distress flare, all smoke and crackling heat. His fingers - his  _ left fingers _ , the ones he hasn’t had since he was 22 - itch as though they’re crawling with a hundred of the fire-ants he used to poke at as a kid, and all he can do is inhale through the urge to claw at the senseless steel that lies where they should be. 

 

Hanzo’s eyes flicker to it, and his mouth twitches at the corner as though he’s about to say something. Apparently, he thinks better of it, because he quickly looks away and grits his jaw so tightly that the muscles of his neck tense. He resumes tending to McCree’s arm with such intensity that it seems he’s attempting to erase the bullet-graze through force of will alone. 

 

McCree sits sprawled in a chair, smoking, and lets Hanzo continue to fuss over his wounds as he takes in their surroundings. 

 

As safehouses go, the one Winston’s found them this time isn’t half bad. It’s a hotel rather than a hellhole shack in the middle of some godforsaken nowhere, and whilst it’s a long shot from what most people would call luxury, he’s thankful for the sight of neatly pressed sheets and the homely glow of a plastic lamp. The decor is simplistic, just blank scapes of indigo paint and flat pack MDF, but everything looks clean. There aren’t even any suspicious stains on the carpet - at least, none that he can see. In this line of work, it pays to be grateful for small blessings.   
  
“Well, this’s all pretty damn fancy,” he says to break the silence, glancing around the room appreciatively. “D’ya think they do room service?”

 

Hanzo raises one still-furrowed eyebrow, but says nothing. 

 

“Y’know, always wanted to order room service,” he continues, clenching and unclenching his metal fingers idly. The urge to scratch the itch that isn’t there is growing. “We could pretend to be some rich folks or somethin’,” he laughs, and then hastens to add: “‘cept, not that rich, I ain’t got the money for orderin’ much.”

 

He tries not to wince as Hanzo presses hard on a particularly deep part of the graze. He’s sure it’s on purpose. Some kind of punishment for being such an idiot. The streaming adrenaline is starting to wear off, to seep out of his veins like water through a sieve. As it fades, it exposes the heated sting left by the bullet when it chewed through flesh. McCree is suddenly acutely aware that he is tired and his mouth is dry and his tongue feels heavy.    
  
“Hey, darlin’, d’ya think Winston’s payin’ this time? Could really do with a drink about now. Y’know. Not much or nothin’. Just a little. Maybe some bourbon. Could kill a man for a measure of Lost Republic right about now, but anythin’d do. Hell, I’d even drink that shit we used ta homebrew. Tasted like piss. Ma used t’say it’d kill a horse. Not that we ever gave any to horses or nothin’, we didn’ have any.” He clenches his metal hand again, looks at it, tries to focus on the way the fingers curl and uncurl. “Darlin’? I mean, I know it’s supposed ta be business expenses an’ all, but sometimes a man’s gotta just have a drink, y’know? Celebrate havin’ an arm left an’ shit. They’re damn useful sometimes an’ havin’ one of them left’s pretty good. It’s been a long day an’-”

 

“Stop.”

 

The words die in his throat.

 

Hanzo is staring at him in a way that makes his skin itch almost as much as the phantom pains in his arm do. His eyebrows are drawn, brown eyes focussed intensely on him, head tipped ever so slightly to one side as though calculating the angle of a shot. Calloused fingertips grab McCree’s jaw firmly and force him to look straight into the other man’s eyes. He feels like prey. 

 

“You did not debrief,” Hanzo says finally. It’s more a statement than a question. He waits to be reprimanded. 

 

He hates debriefing. He hates reflecting on failure. He’s already scrabbling in his own frustration as though he’s drowning in it. He waits for Hanzo to extol the importance of analysing a failed mission within an inch of its life, of psychologically breaking down each and every mistake. The air is heavy in his lungs. Suddenly the hotel room feels like the damp heat before a lightning storm, seconds away from cracking into blazing fire. Unwanted memories of Reyes rebuking him after missions surface up like hot, bubbling tar, and he wants to heave, to gag on the remembrance of it and spit out the metallic aftertaste until he’s empty. Quickly, he fills his mouth with more cigar smoke. 

 

But Hanzo does not speak. Instead, he puts down the blood-and-antiseptic soaked cloth. In one graceful, languid motion, he sinks to his knees. McCree lets the oaky taste of the cigar roll on his tongue and watches, suspicious, as the man settles on the floor, between his spread legs.

 

“What’re ya doin’?” he attempts weakly.

 

“Debriefing,” Hanzo says.   
  
The hands that begin to massage his calves feel warm even through his clothes. Hanzo’s fingers work in slow circles, kneading slowly up the back of his legs in a way that almost feels tender. He continues smoking in silence and just stares down at this beautiful man, all lithe muscle and dark-eyed intensity. The frustration gnawing in his chest slowly uncoils, and gradually, he remembers how to breathe. The room smells of sandalwood and clean air, and it’s oddly soothing. Warm fingers splay up his inner thighs, circling, drawing elaborate topographies into his skin and easing the stress from bruised muscle. 

 

McCree shivers unintentionally and leans into the touch. He feels over-tight, like string stretched until it snaps, but the spiralling motions are vaguely hypnotic, and they send liquid heat shooting straight to his crotch. He lets out a low sound of appreciation. Dark brown eyes flicker up to meet his gaze, pupils blown wide, and Hanzo places a slow, deliberate kiss to his thigh. McCree swallows thickly, almost chokes on the tenderness. He was ready for anger, but not for this. With each soothing stroke of Hanzo’s hands, the phantom itch in his arm begins to lose its grip. 

 

And then, all at once, there are fingers stroking at the front of his trousers, cupping him, outlining his cock through the fabric. Sparks rush in his stomach. McCree almost chokes on the smoke in his mouth.

 

“Jesus fuck, I-”

 

“Relax.” That voice makes him shiver hotly with arousal. It isn’t a suggestion. It’s a command.

 

“Damn. Yessir.” He laughs, but it’s all bravado that he doesn’t really feel, and it earns him a sharp glare in response. He immediately brings the cigar back to his lips with trembling fingers and stops talking. Whatever  _ this  _ is, it’s shaping up to be too enjoyable to waste through his usual bull-headedness. 

 

There’s something entrancing about seeing Hanzo on his knees, leaning into his lap, kissing along his thighs devotionally as though he’s paying respect to a god. Hanzo is smaller than he is, but he’s all muscle and sleek curves, tight coiled power that makes McCree feel breakable. He shivers at the way he looks up at him from the floor - as though he’s something to be adored, something to be  _ worshipped _ . 

 

Still stroking and massaging, Hanzo leans back a little and looks up at him. Eyes fixed on McCree’s own, his hand finds McCree’s human one, and lifts it slowly to his mouth. He watches helplessly as soft lips trail up his hand and each one of his fingertips is kissed. It’s gentle and tender and he isn’t used to it and it makes him tremble in a way he can’t control. The other man stares at him the whole time, with a look that’s somewhere between fond and hungry, and in this moment he feels so horribly  _ wanted  _ that it’s hard to breathe. 

 

“Fuck,” he says eloquently, as Hanzo slides one of his fingers slowly into his mouth. His mouth is so wet and so warm, and it’s so suggestive it’s bordering on obscene. It’s  _ wonderful _ . When he starts to lick and suck, eyes eager, McCree has to stifle a whine. Shuffling slightly in the chair to ease the tightness at the front of his trousers, he sits back to watch as Hanzo takes a second finger into his mouth. He has no control like this, not like he usually does. He’s used to pinning and grabbing and dominating, not being worshipped. Like this he’s helpless, his need entirely subject to Hanzo’s whim. It makes him dizzy. McCree moans.

 

This has no right to feel this fucking  _ good _ , has no right to make heat shoot to his cock. And yet he’s so hard that it’s almost painful. He’s lost to the slick heat of Hanzo’s clever tongue, lost to the need for it to be lower, lost to the image of those wonderful soft lips stretched tight around the thick base of his cock. He imagines fucking into the welcoming rush of Hanzo’s throat and tangling his fingers into fists in that dark hair. A cool breeze from the open window glances across the sweat pooling at the base of his neck.

 

Finally, after what feels like a torturous eternity but can only be a matter of minutes, Hanzo pulls away. McCree swallows, mouth dry, as hands grip at his hips, at the line of his waistband. Hanzo struggles with the gold buckle of his belt - frowning when, as usual, it sticks. He wants to tell him to be careful, he loves that buckle, even when it’s tied up with a hundred clawing memories of Reyes, but the words feel too weighty. Instead, he puts his mouth to better use by taking another puff of smoke. 

 

Eventually, Hanzo gets what he wants, prising the belt buckle apart with a low hum of satisfaction. With deft fingers, he frees McCree’s cock, takes it in his hand, smears a thick, sticky line of precum from the tip with his thumb, and strokes. The sudden friction is so wonderful that it makes him shudder right from the base of his spine. All he can hear is his own grateful whine and the gasps of his breathing.

 

His tongue feels too heavy, and the room is suddenly too warm. He’s acutely aware that he’s painfully hard, that he wants more, wants  _ everything _ . He wants to be shattered to nothing in the grip of Hanzo’s hands, broken down until nothing else matters but skin and cock and the coil of a dragon tattoo. In this moment, he knows that he’s fucked.

 

“Ah,  _ shit, _ ” he says, “fuck.” He spreads his legs a little wider. 

 

“Are you begging?” Hanzo rests his head innocently against McCree’s thigh as he looks up at him. The weight of it is reassuring amidst the blazing need pooling hot and cold in his stomach. Hanzo’s hand drags down horribly, agonisingly slowly. There’s the smallest smirk on his face that says that he knows  _ exactly  _ what he’s doing. Which is, McCree thinks with a hitch of breath, making him come utterly, irrevocably undone.

 

He blinks heavily. There is cool sweat on his neck. “Uh, might be?” Desperate, he rolls his hips up and shudders at the friction as the head of his cock presses past the tight ring of Hanzo’s fingers. “Fuck, darlin’, there...”

 

“How needy,” Hanzo says, still idly caressing McCree’s length. His lips part, just a little, just enough to make McCree’s head run blank with the image of pressing past them, of sliding home into that wonderful soft mouth. And yet, he can’t. He’s helpless. Hanzo is entirely in control, toying with him like he’s prey, and the thought is enough to make the word slip from him before he’s even had a chance to think about what it means:

 

“ _ Please. _ ”

 

The smallest hint of a smile plays on the other man’s lips. And then those wonderful lips are somewhere better entirely. 

  
A thin whine claws its way from his throat. Hanzo’s mouth is so warm and so incredibly, perfectly wet around the head of his cock that for a second, he loses his grip on himself. He groans before he can help it, shaky with the headrush. His world shatters, shrinks to nothing but slick velvety heat. And then that heat is sinking lower and his chest feels like cool liquid fire.

 

“Oh, fuck,” he manages, fighting back the sparks in his stomach that tell him to thrust upwards, to take, to claim, to just desperately fuck the other man’s face like a dog in heat until he cums. “Oh fuck, fuck,  _ yes.” _

 

He looks down. Hanzo glances up to meet his gaze, mouth full of cock. The eager intensity of his stare, of how much he loves having McCree under his command, crushes the air right out of his lungs. Those beautiful dark eyes are watering as he licks and sucks, soft, wet lips dragging against his skin, and McCree moans at the knowledge that all of his control has been burned away. He feels like he’s being dissolved under the massaging pressure of hands and tongue. None of his duty or his actions matter.  _ Reyes _ doesn’t matter. Hanzo’s tongue presses hard against his cock and it’s all meaningless, all useless hypotheses rendered to dust. He surrenders.

 

He knows he is completely at Hanzo’s mercy, and it’s good, it’s so  _ good _ . It’s so fucking good that he lets himself be lost to it, leans his head back against the chair heavily, eyes dropping shut. Panting, he thrusts shallowly, only to keen when strong hands grab at his hips and pin him down into the chair. He feels like stars and spilt whiskey and he almost sobs. 

 

Hanzo’s mouth is like home. He wants to fuck into it,  _ needs _ to. He’s dizzy and panting and drawn tight with need and he wants nothing more than to let himself go in the soft wetness of Hanzo’s throat. But the hands at his hips hold him steady. Every lick and slide makes him feel like he’s coming undone, being pulled apart piece by piece, but it’s not enough. Gritting his teeth, he whimpers, actually  _ whimpers _ and lets himself be overwhelmed by the pressure rushing between his legs. McCree is lost to the tight warmth and the slide of lips over his cock and he’s spread wide open and keening and his balls feel tight with the need to cum. It’s all too good and he can barely breathe.

 

And then, suddenly, the wonderful wet heat is gone. Protests bubble in his chest,  _ please no please,  _ and it isn’t fair. His eyes shoot open and he groans, desperate and dizzied. Hanzo is panting, his chest heaving with each breath that he takes, his expression hungry. There is an ache that pulls deep in McCree’s throat at how beautiful he is like this, with his eyes watering and his hair tousled and precum smeared across his face but totally and unquestionably in control.

 

“Stand,” Hanzo says, voice drawn rough with need. He obeys without question. 

 

In one fluid motion, Hanzo rises to his feet, takes the cigar from between McCree’s lips and tosses it into an ashtray on the windowsill.

 

“Hey, fuck! Ya can’t-” he begins to protest, but then Hanzo is dragging him down to kiss him hungrily and he chokes on his own words. It’s all passionate aggression that shoots straight to his groin. Hanzo tastes like spice and tea and heat and cock. Hands are winding and tugging in his hair and he’s drunk on it, drunk on  _ this _ . He inhales sharply, feels the weight of the other man against his chest. With shaking hands he grabs at the broad muscle of Hanzo’s shoulders as though they’re a lifeline.

 

Hanzo pulls away and kisses wetly up the juncture of his neck, pausing to tongue at the line of his ear. It makes him feel weak, like his legs might buckle. He tries to press against him just to get some friction against his cock. He’s aching for it, needy and helpless and desperate to be touched again.

 

“Undress,” Hanzo commands. “Do it. Now.  _ Now. _ ”

 

He can’t respond fast enough. Everything is desperate hands and caught zippers. He groans in relief at the feeling of cool air against his bare skin as he shrugs out of his clothes. Hot pain shoots through his arm as his shirt tugs against the bullet graze, but he doesn’t care. He struggles and pulls at his clothes with shaking hands, tosses them aside, already reaching and grabbing for Hanzo like he’s an anchor. 

 

And then there’s hot skin under his hands and it’s like a revelation, like every prayer that slipped from his tongue as a child. Hanzo’s body is a new religion. It’s a creed that he wants to devote himself to with every inch of his being. He slides his fingers down the warm, sweat-kissed skin of Hanzo’s back and moans as he kisses him again. The whole world is lost to the urgent press of Hanzo’s mouth against his. As he inhales, the scent of spice and sweat fills his nose.

 

He is pushed as much as he sits back down, panting. Hanzo slides down on top of him, straddles him, chest heaving. The weight of so much muscle pushing him down into the chair makes him feel small, and it sends a thrill down his spine. He’s so hard that he  _ aches _ . Hands roam up his neck and grip his jaw, forcing him into a kiss that leaves him shuddering. Without thinking, he rolls his hips, feels the delicious friction of someone else’s skin against his cock. He is burning and alive with the rush of Hanzo through his veins. 

 

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he says as they part, gasping. 

 

And he is, always is, but especially like this, especially tonight when he needs to be shattered until the memories stop feeling like a dirty noose around his throat. McCree drinks in the sight of him like it’s cheap liquor. He wants to get drunk on the warm muscle of the other man’s chest, on the taut plane of his exposed stomach. Clumsily, he strokes his fingers along the line of Hanzo’s throat, feels the pulse under his fingers. He trails down lower, past his neck and across his collarbones, mapping out his chest. Hanzo is all power and honed muscle and it makes him dizzy, head flooded with want that threatens to overwhelm him.

 

“You talk too much.” Hanzo knits his fingers into McCree’s hair, tugs his head back to expose his throat. A hiss escapes from him. He feels open, exposed, reminded that he’s being toyed with by a man who kills for a living, and he can’t help but close his eyes and moan as Hanzo grinds against him, licks up to his jaw. 

 

The raw friction of skin against skin is like a drug, a chemical of grabbing hands and musk and breathy half-sounds, and he’s high, too irredeemably high to come back down. It’s so wonderful that he can only whine and surrender to it. He’s trembling and defenseless and Hanzo is  _ everything _ . He pushes up, meeting the slide of Hanzo’s thighs against his own. The hard heat between Hanzo’s legs is like praise. It’s sloppy and hungry and he feels like  _ nothing  _ and it’s glorious. 

 

McCree opens his eyes, blinks as Hanzo’s hand finds his own flesh-and-blood one and drags it towards him, palm up. All of his comprehension is swallowed up by the rhythm of their grinding together. His pulse is rushing in his ears and he’s lost to the smell of tea and the taste of his own cock still heavy in his mouth. Hanzo looks at him like he owns him, pupils blown, still grinding against him in strong, fluid motions. And then there is the snap of a bottle opening and he doesn’t understand until something cool and wet is being poured onto his fingers. He swallows thickly as his hand is guided down between the hot skin of Hanzo’s thighs. It is a language that needs no words. McCree shivers.   
  
“Fuck me,” Hanzo orders coolly in his ear, and it sends shudders right through his spine.

 

“Oh, y’are fuckin-” He whines as the words are kissed violently out of his mouth.

 

“Stop talking. Focus. Fuck me.”  

 

McCree just nods helplessly -  _ yes, yes, yes _ . Pushed down into the chair like this, he feels vulnerable, like he could be ripped apart, and he’s drunk on it. He strokes one slick finger against the tight muscle of Hanzo’s ass, moans. The sound of his own heartbeat is heavy in his ears as he draws wet circles until his skin is sticky. McCree’s mouth is dry as he tunes into the rhythm of the other man’s breathing and eases a finger inside that wonderful heat that makes his chest feel like it’s going to burst. The sound of Hanzo’s breath hitching sharply in his ear, the involuntary jerk of his hips, are enough to make his head spin.    
  
He fingers him clumsily. The room is filled with the sound of Hanzo panting for air, little gasps that catch in his throat. McCree licks a line up his collarbone hungrily, tastes salt. There is a pulse hammering against his tongue, and he sucks at it.   
  


“Jesse, come on.” Hanzo’s voice is rough in his ear. He slides a second finger into the welcoming tight heat of his ass, feels the spasm of muscle around him. The sound Hanzo makes almost ruins him. 

 

“You’re so tight for me, darlin’,” he says idly, mouth dry, mind running blank. His fingers curl and stroke as he fucks him. Hanzo is white noise in his veins. “So fuckin’  _ tight. _ ” Hanzo makes a huffing little sound deep in his chest and pushes himself down hard onto McCree’s fingers.

 

Before long, he adds a third. The feeling of the other man stretched wide open for him is glorious. Hanzo grinds his hips down heavily, just enough to skim against the building pressure sitting hot between McCree’s thighs, and he is sickeningly desperate for more. He wants to be overwhelmed until nothing matters but the slide of their bodies together. There is a sticky patch growing on his stomach where his cock is leaking precum from the sight of his fingers sliding in and out of Hanzo’s ass. 

 

Hanzo leans down, bites the soft skin of his earlobe, says; “I told you to  _ fuck me. _ ” 

 

He’s helpless.

 

McCree is gasping and sticky and barely himself as he slides his fingers from the tightness of Hanzo’s ass and fumbles for lube. His consciousness feels splintered by arousal, blazing with static. But Hanzo’s hands are suddenly there, sliding along his cock. They are slick and cool and they glide up and down him like liquid satin. He feels the jolt right at the base of his spine. Each breath feels like it is a fish-hook in his throat, tugging and pulling and threatening to break him. He busies himself with mouthing at Hanzo’s chest.

 

And then Hanzo is sinking down onto his cock and he’s inside him, being enveloped in that impossibly tight heat and it’s all too much, too good. McCree’s breath catches so hard in his throat that it’s almost painful. He’s drowning, choking for air and scrabbling against Hanzo’s thighs with his fingers. Hanzo’s eyes are fixed on him, predatory, and there is a thin sheen of sweat across his forehead as he goes lower, inch by inch. 

 

Finally, he settles, inhales deeply. McCree’s mind freezes. Hanzo’s fingers are gripping his shoulders so hard he thinks -  _ hopes -  _ it’s going to leave bruises. 

 

“Fucking fuck, Hanzo,” he says, “ _ fuck. _ ” He’s sweating, can feel it on his skin, but the tug in his stomach is begging for more and more and more. “You feel so good, darlin’, you feel perfect.” 

 

Being inside Hanzo is overwhelming, like every one of his cracks is being filled in. He is being filled up and taken over. Hanzo is riding him - and the feel of his body - on him and around him and covering him - is  _ everything _ . He feels like a trigger ready to shoot, vibrating and taught in someone else’s hands. Hanzo’s body pressed against his is like a drug and he needs the suffocating rush of it to erase everything he doesn’t want to be any more. 

 

Pinned by the weight of Hanzo on top of him, he can’t move, can only surrender to the roll of Hanzo’s hips as he starts to fuck himself on his cock. He is powerless and possessed and it makes him feel alive. He reaches up to tangle his fingers in that soft, dark hair and then Hanzo is kissing him possessively, all gasping breaths and teeth. He feels like his chest is about to burst open into a thousand sparks. The tight heat clenching around him is almost too much and he struggles to keep his last shred of control. The chair creaks and groans helplessly under them. 

 

It doesn’t take long before he can feel the orgasm building in his stomach, tight and hot and tingling.

“I need you,” he says stupidly, gasping for breath, and he doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say or why he’s saying it, but the words are choking him like smoke. All he knows is that he needs Hanzo more acutely than he’s ever needed anything else in his life, like he’s itching to shoot him up into his veins. He wants to sob.

 

“Look at you,” Hanzo says and it makes him shiver. The other man’s breathing is erratic, his hips stuttering as he pushes them both towards what they need. There’s a pause, and his fingers trail heavily along McCree’s jaw. The corner of his mouth twitches into a smile. “You look so good like this.”

 

“Oh,” he says, “oh, Hanzo, fuck -  _ ah  _ \- oh, god...” There is pleasure sparking between his legs and he knows he can’t last, can’t possibly endure much more of this because it’s all so  _ much _ . He’s so close, he can feel it, and his mouth is full of salt and Hanzo and euphoria. Somewhere at the back of his mind, with his last shred of coherence, he knows, he  _ knows _ that Hanzo is going to make him come and he’s falling and helpless and lost in it. His whole body is racing, swallowed up by the wet slap of skin on skin, aching with the need to release.  

 

“You can lose control, you know,” Hanzo says in his ear, grabbing him by the neck in a way that’s somehow soothing. “You can come if you want.”

 

He shivers, tries to push against Hanzo’s weight to thrust up, to feel more, to feel all of it. He’s so fucking  _ close  _ and he wants to feel everything. He’s vaguely aware that Hanzo is desperately fucking his own hand, that there are soft wet sounds of him stroking his own cock over and over.

 

“I can’t. I can’t, fuck,  _ Hanzo _ -”

 

“I’ve got you,” Hanzo says, rests his forehead against McCree’s own. He’s gasping for air. “Shit, Jesse. Let go. Come for me.”

 

He gasps and his body is tight and his mind is blank and he’s lost. He feels himself stutter, teeter on the precipice of himself, and he’s whining and cursing. There’s a rush of sparks up his thighs and he can’t breathe. He almost wants it to stop but it  _ can’t _ because he’s so close and he needs this, needs Hanzo, needs-

 

“Come for me, Jesse,” Hanzo says again.

 

Something snaps.

 

His head rushes with stars and the world gives way. His eyes squeeze shut and all at once he’s finally letting himself go, coming in a hot rush, emptying himself deep inside Hanzo and whimpering his name like it’s a mantra on his lips. He’s shuddering and hot and sticky and Hanzo is everything. He drowns in him like he’s water, deep and still and wonderfully horribly blue. McCree gasps, eyes damp, body tingling and flooded with the rush of orgasm, grabs uselessly for Hanzo like he wants to bury himself. He is dust and bright, throbbing sparks and nothing else matters. Nothing matters except for the weight of Hanzo’s body and the little moaning gasps that he makes as he comes, and the warm splash of cum across his belly. 

 

There are long moments when they pant and gasp in each other’s arms, heaving for air. Hanzo is soothing him and stroking his hair and kissing him. His hands are warm and calloused and McCree leans into them desperately. He’s pliant and sated and drifting and so wonderfully empty that he feels light.

 

“Consider yourself debriefed,” Hanzo says, running his hands through his hair in a way that makes his scalp tingle. 

 

He only knows that he feels like smoke and whiskey and cool fire and none of it matters at all. 

 

  
  


* * *

 

  
  


Later, McCree says into the dark, “He gave me everythin’, y’know. Back then.” He is sprawled on the bed, Hanzo lying on his chest, dozing, shower-damp hair cool against his skin.  

 

There is silence. Somewhere in the distance, he hears the wail of a siren.

 

“I know,” Hanzo says finally. There’s a pause that feels like it might break them, and his ribs feel too tight, but then he adds, “Things change. You do not belong to him anymore.”

 

He thinks about the years of pleading to be praised, of blood and gunpowder and the dusty mid-noon heat of the trails they used to run. He thinks about the man who descended towards him like a saint from one of the old church windows he used to cower in the reflection of as a child, all knife-sharp brightness and divine anger. He thinks of the hands that pulled him up like an angel’s and passed him a weapon of justice and sometimes, just sometimes, stroked his hair and made him feel like it was his divine right to live. He thinks of the lives he took as benediction, the blood price he paid for the thrill of praise and the sacrament of being needed and an education in living a life.

 

But then he feels the weight of Hanzo on his chest, the solid warmth of him, and he realises that maybe he’s bound himself to a new kind of religion now. It’s sweat and muscle. It’s skin and bone and a dragon tattoo. It’s the warmest place he’s ever been able to call home.

 

“Yeah,” McCree yawns, strokes his fingers through the other man’s hair. “Y’know, I guess you’re right.”

 

He sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> [You can find me on twitter as @mitten_crab!](https://twitter.com/mitten_crab/)   
> 


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